


Font of Light: Preservation

by IchabbiEternal (99_Girl)



Series: Font of Light [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Divorce, Exes, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Friendship/Love, Gen, Horror, Multi, POV First Person, Romance, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sleepy Hollow AU, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6526240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99_Girl/pseuds/IchabbiEternal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first episode of 'Font of Light'. Abbie and Ichabod build their lives and team of allies for the fight to defeat Moloch and his minions. This is an AU Fix-It fic, beginning in Season 2. Katrina has escaped Henry and The Horseman without being harmed. Abbie and Ichabod are closer than ever. Labelled as Mature for eventual adult themes, horror, and erotic content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope that you enjoy this! I've proofed it a few times, so hopefully there aren't any errors. Let me know if there are. This series is open-ended in length and will be made up of multiple episodes. I'll update it as frequently as possible. 
> 
> I know it's short, but I promise the later installments will be longer. Was just feeling very motivated and wanted to get some momentum on the project.
> 
> Thanks for your time! And, as always, kudos and/or comments are much appreciated.

 

 

**Font of Light: Preservation**

 

**Chapter One**

 

Abbie

 

 

_"Yeah. This isn't gonna be awkward at all."_

      I've been dreading this afternoon since Ichabod set the plans two days ago. I know him well enough to see that bit of sad-sackiness he's been cradling between thick layers of pedantry, made even more delightful by an extra coating of sweetly-worded condescension; still, bits of tender nuttiness keep him from breaking apart-- _"I'm so frickin' hungry. Some Baklava would be awesome right now."_

      "Crane, do you think that Greek place on Willow delivers?" In preparation, I've been slinking around the house, lighting lavender candles and humming songs I know Ichabod loves. The fridge is stocked with the beer he prefers. The house is chilly-- I lowered the heat because he tends to run hot, getting warm even faster when he's nervous about something.

      "I haven't the slightest clue, Lieutenant." He's hunched over my diningroom table, spine curved, shoulders straight, brow wrinkled. A tattered volume of Greek hermeneutical essays splayed before him, weathered and weary from time and misuse-- not unlike the man carefully turning its crackled vellum pages. Dust motes float around him, a bit sparkly in the noon glow.

      "Fair enough," I concede. "But tomorrow we're getting some damned pastry." Depositing the lighter I was using onto an endtable, I move to stand behind him. "That writing is inscrutable. Don't your eyes hurt?"

      He turns and smiles. It reaches the corners of his eyes, so I know it's the real deal. "When one has been inculcated with the knack for deciphering Benjamin Franklin's appalling catscratch, the sky is but the sole limit." I can't help but chuckle and pat his shoulder. Ichabod's eyes widen for a second before focusing intently on the book. Looking down, I see the reason. In my rush to make things comfortable for him I forgot to put on a bra, and I know very well what kind of jiggle physics I'm working. No matter how many videogames he plays, I'm not sure Ichabod was ready for my braless rack that close to his face, especially since my gray cotton tee has been rendered near transparent by the bright sun streaming through my wide picture windows. Jenny would love this. _"Yup, seems about right for a day like today."_

      "I'm just going to head upstairs to finish getting ready." My knuckles smack against the back of his chair as I turn-- the twins shake in his face again, but this time he pointedly traces his index finger over a yellowed page, following the script and whispering what's written. I know he saw out of his peripheral vision, though, because he swallows and coughs again. _"Yeah, I need some dessert."_

      Sprinting upstairs, I dig through my drawer for a bra tank. Regular tank, regular tank, long tank with a hole in it (w _hy are you still in here?_ ), a pair of misplaced boy shorts-- steel gray bra tank! Score. Wearing an underwire on my day off is not happening if we're staying in. I pull out my phone.

       **Me: Hey, could you please grab me some Baklava from the place on Willow on your way?**

**Jenny: Sure. What's wrong?**

      **Me: What do you mean?**

      **Jenny: You only ever want it when you're stressed. ;)**

      **Me: Shush, you. See you soon.**

      **Me: And thank you!**

       ****The lavender smell has made its way upstairs, but it's only a tiny bit calming. I'm feeling weird, and I'm freezing. The hunt for my black, ribbed sweater commences.

      Ten minutes later I'm fully dressed; hair combed, teeth brushed, clothes on right-side-out, correct direction, proper order, and my boobs reined in. There's a knock on the front door. I hustle into the hallway, padding down the stairs about as quickly as any sane person would dare in slippery socks, to find that Ichabod has already opened it for our guest. Katrina walks in, calmly appraising my place. Her posture is straight and confident, her eyes kind, but thin bands of tension strap the sides of her mouth. She's already to the middle of the living room and Crane still hasn't said anything, apparently paralyzed by the electric awkwardness palpable in the room. I throw them both a bone.

      Continuing casually down the last few steps, I chime, "Hey, Katrina! How are you?"

      "Quite well, Abigail!" Her voice is warm, if a bit pitched from nervousness. She smiles broadly to me, then directs a friendly look to Crane in turn. "I'm very glad to see you both." For only having a couple weeks to adjust, Katrina seems to be a little less weirded out by the encounter. This is the first time they've seen each other since deciding to split up.

      Not to be outdone in comportment by any living being, human or otherwise, Crane unfreezes and bows gracefully. Propriety is bizarrely soothing to him. If she'd been around when he was a teen, Ichabod Crane would've had wet dreams about Emily Post. "Yes, wonderful to see you again, Katrina. Once Miss Jenny arrives, shall we begin strategizing? Lieutenant and I have unearthed some remarkable prospects for stemming Moloch's machinations. May we offer a refreshment?"

      A silent giggle nearly escapes me, but I manage to catch it. _"I just can't with that man."_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and Ichabod enjoy a little downtime, but it comes to an unsettling conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your comments and kudos on the first chapter! I'm really enjoying writing this. Please feel free to let me know what you think. This was my first time writing from Ichabod's POV, which proved challenging. In the end, please know that this is, at its heart, Abbie's story. Just as the show should have been. We'll be spending the most time with her.

**Chapter 2**

 

**Ichabod**

 

     Abbie's countenance is the very image of peaceful slumber. Today had certainly been exhausting, though far less than it could have been in the circumstances. This perfect creature, borne of compassion, largess, intellect, wit, cleverness, and immeasurable inner and outer beauty is my guiding star. Without her, there is no place for me in this world; Katrina helped me to see this in greater clarity-- not because I do not care for my ex-wife, but because Grace Abigail Mills is a radiant font of light, a dazzling beacon I would follow into the howling abyss.

_"Ichabod, we are not the same. Our marriage slips blithely upon a shifting foundation of prevarications, and it is with heavy heart that I must acknowledge a painful truth: not once in our past have we been equals. Secrets and lies pendulum power between us both incessantly." Katrina and I are in bed, wrapped in a coniferous redolence wafting through the window, and a warm duvet dyed in hue to match the aforementioned evergreens. Moments prior, we had attempted to rekindle our marital relations, only for she to request that we stop. "At the Market of Convenience yesterday, my ears pricked at a song emitting from the strange corrugated openings in the ceiling. It was a soulful melody and a woman sang, 'Sometimes love just ain't enough.' I am sorry to say it, dear husband, but I was moved by this message and I feel as though it has merit."_

     Here and now, my fellow Witness lies prone, extended in languor along her plush Chesterfield sofa. Wishing only to nap, she had charged me with waking her at this time, thus I lightly perch upon the edge nearest her flank, rubbing my palm firmly over graceful shoulder blades, endeavoring not to startle her into wakefulness. It has the desired effect.

     Abbie rolls onto her side, slight form pressing into the sofa back. Patting the cushion before her she murmurs, "Hey, slide closer so you don't fall off." Her voice is flocked in sleep, deeper than is customary; arm extending, she alights an ethereal hand upon my own heartier one. Said combination instigates an enthusiastic horripilation over my entire body. She had teased me just last week, insisting I am 'constantly covered in goosebumps' despite often complaining that I am overwarm. Little does she know it is in response to her. Our lot has proven increasingly more complex, yet if there is one thing in this life in which I have the deepest faith, certainty, and affection, it is this woman. Though I must admit that the attraction I feel towards her is, at times, overwhelming and confusing. She is my best friend, an ally in this unthinkable war, and I have not yet identified whether what I feel could be anything deeper than the adoration of a friend conflated with physical and mental appreciation for her considerable attractiveness; there is also the matter of my protracted celibacy.

     "Did you find the thing you were looking for?" It is a rare happenstance when Abbie looks this relaxed and rested-- perhaps due to the meadow's worth of lavender candles she thought I had not noticed she'd lit before Katrina's arrival.

     Abbie stretches her arms overhead, deftly avoiding the nearby table lamp. Black knitted fabric pulls taught, revealing a sliver of skin beneath the sweater's hem and I feel the urge to splay my palm upon her midriff, an insistent desire to roam my hands beneath her clothing. _"God's wounds, she is beautiful."_

     "Not yet, but I thought upon rousing you that you might enjoy taking in some television. There is a new program you may like."

     Sitting up, she considers. "Sure. What's the show?"

     "I believe the given title is 'iZombie'." I make myself comfortable in the warmed spot her legs recently vacated, reclining, cradled, in overstuffed gray cotton upholstery. Abbie retrieves the remote from her coffee table, igniting the television screen with a press of her thumb. With my ample reach, I scoop her legs and feet into my lap.

     "Crane you don't have t-- to-- ohhhh... okay. Knock yourself out." Massaging in practiced motions, I set to task relieving her feet of tension.

     "Lieutenant, would you please quote-unquote _chill_ and allow me to show you the same care and attentiveness you consistently volunteer on my behalf?"

     A husky, sleepy laugh ripples through her. "Okay, then. Harder along the arch, if you don't mind."

     "My pleasure."

Abbie

 

     "You're awfully good at that. Rub a lot of feet back in the day?" I love teasing him.

      His eyes flick up to the right; after a solid minute of thought he says, "I suppose you could say that." The distasteful look on his face tells me his answer has something to do with some kind of Founding Fathers' nonsense. _"Jackpot."_

     "So, you have a foot fetish? I had no idea." A flash of coral nail polish gleams in the lamplight; I rib his side playfully with the ball of my foot. He snatches it up and starts rubbing it again. This time along the whole length at once. "Your hands are huge," I tell him.

     "I presume you are referring to an erotic fascination with the appendage, and not to a 'Lucky Rabbit's Foot'." Damn, he's onto me. After some resistance, Ichabod Crane is becoming a man of the 20th century. "No, my enjoyment of amorous congress in no way hinges upon foot idolatry. However, my apprenticeship with Franklin did. He insisted upon a morning foot massage, with rosemary oil to stimulate circulation. Apparently I possess great skill for the work, so he frequently offered my services to his guests." His nose crinkles and he shakes his head like he's trying to physically expel the memory.

     "Oh, Crane, that actually really sucks. I'm sorry." I feel bad for teasing him now, but he's grinning.

     Turning to look at me he replies, "Do not be, Lieutenant, for it means I've the ability to bring you pleasure in the present. There is no better outcome."

_"Way to be stupid hot, Crane."_

     "And as for my 'huge' hands, let us be just-- your feet are exceptionally dainty." To demonstrate, he holds up my right foot and compares his palm to my sole.

     "Maybe you're just really big in general. I think that's the most logical conclusion." Winking, I wiggle my toes and say, "Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

     "Yes. My apologies, Lieutenant." Ichabod chuckles deep in his belly and starts to massage my instep. "Also, be equitable. The consensus is that you are 'Fun-sized', at least according to Miss Jenny. Though I seem to recall that you dubbed her a 'Spinster' in retaliation." I shake with laughter until tears well in the corners of my eyes.

     "I called her a 'Spinner', not a 'Spinster'. They're pretty different."

     "Is that so? Well, please edify me." The genuine curiosity of a fierce 'autodidact' shows on his face.

     "Well-- umm." Might as well just lay it out plain. "It's a woman who's so thin that a guy can spin her on his penis." Surprisingly, he hasn't blushed-- doesn't seem flustered at all, actually. He's quiet in thought again.

     "Is that something people enjoy in this era? I admit to being 'out of the loop', as they say, but in my tenure as a soldier, I labored under the impression that I had heard everything. Language and humor amongst my comrades was often unabashedly ribald." His thumbs are gliding along my ankle joint now, rubbing out the knots from all the running we've done lately.

     " _This has taken a turn._ " I hum. My throat is dry. I start taking inventory of any memory I have where someone mentioned 'Spinners' and didn't sound like an urban legend. "Gonna take a stab in the dark and say 'no'. I mean, I could be wrong, but still." I pick up my phone to Google it; _D_ _ing--_ it chimes right before I bring up the browser. "Oh! It's from Hawley. He found a copy of that Slavic grimoire you were looking for." I smile; Ichabod frowns. "Hey now, what's the sourpuss for?"

     "My expression is neither sour, nor puss-like. It just seems a bit late for a textual missive."

     "From Hawley, you mean."

     "From anyone, Lieutenant."

     "But specifically from Hawley." He sighs in exasperation at what I'm implying and begins to rub my toes, one by one. "Crane, what is this pissing contest between you two? It's counterproductive and, if I'm being honest, really annoying. If that text came from Jenny, you'd practically be clicking your heels that we finally have a copy of a book you've been searching for for ages, but no, you're scowling. Enough. What's with the shade?"

     Properly shamed, he looks me in the eye. "You are right, Lieutenant. I apologize. Does he know how to get to the Archives through the precinct? If he is amenable, it would be most helpful were he to bring it to us  _tutte suite._ Perhaps even tomorrow?"

     "Sure, I'll ask him." I Swype my response while looking over at the TV. "Wanna bring up Hulu and search for the show?" During our conversation, the remote had slipped into the opening under my calf. He digs for it while I wait for Hawley to message back. _Ding_. "Okay, he says he'll bring it by and he'll just ask for directions from one of the officers in the precinct." Ichabod plunks through the search menu. i- _(It's A Wonderful Life)_ , iz- (No Results), izo- (No Results). He sighs, frustrated. "Do the next letter, I bet it comes up." izom- ( _iZombie_ ).

     "Huzzah! Now 'Start Episode', you pernicious scoundrel." Triumphant, Ichabod drops the controller onto the sofa arm.

     "Oh!" He jumps at my sudden outburst. "Pause it for a sec. The text reminded me that the SHPD Charity Gala is coming up in a week. I have plus-ones for us."

     There's that scowl. "Why would we not attend as a pair, Lieutenant?" His mouth is open slightly, tongue tucked to the side, behind his bottom teeth. I've seen that move before.

     "Say what's on your mind, Crane." I can guess why he's pissy, but I give him the benefit of the doubt.

     "Well, I am uncertain if it would be wise for you to take one such as Hawley to a _fete_  so important to your career. He lacks the poise and polish to represent our tenuous arrangement with the police department. Also, I feel as though I am not familiar enough with anyone locally to take them along, unless you mean for your sister to accompany me."

     I'm not sure if my eyes have ever rolled so hard. Scolding, "See? The dick swinging. Why?" Sitting up, I shift towards him and curl my legs under me. "I don't want to take Hawley. I want to take Macey. And for you to take Cynthia." He tips like a Weeble when I push him over. His shoulder is curvy warmth and thin linen.

     Popping back up, he scratches behind his ear, confused. "You mean for us to take Mistress Cynthia and Miss Macey?" A crooked smile grows, branching over his face. "That is a wonderful idea!"

     "I thought so, too. The NYPD commissioner is old pals with Reyes so he's coming to the gala, and Commissioner Standish and the Irvings were pretty close before all this went down. Apparently he's even voiced disbelief in Frank's guilt for the murders. I figured Cynthia and Macey might like to see an old friend, and Henry had a point when he told Frank we'd abdandoned his family. This way, we can get a sense of how the two ladies are doing, take them for some fun, and make it easier for us to go and schmooze without conflict." Ichabod looks doubtful for a second, but doesn't interrupt.

     "Look, Macey and Cynthia are the last bargaining chips Henry has with Frank. As such, it wouldn't make sense for him to risk hurting them in an attack. It's not like I want to use them as shields, that would be majorly shitty, but we need to know how they're doing and what's going on with them. This seems like a good opportunity." I sigh and prop an arm on the couch back, resting my chin in my palm. "They've lost so much, the least we can do it reconnect them with a valued family friend, you know? But, I'll be straight with you, not going to this shindig would be career suicide, and now that you're on the payroll you're in it just as deep as me."

     "I see your point-- on all accounts; but let us brief the ladies Irving beforehand, in regards to all aspects of the occasion and our plans." He shifts and mirrors how I'm sitting, affectionate eyes locked on mine. "Shall we bump on it?" His fist hovers between us.

     "We shall."

*********

 _Tick, tock, tick, tock._ We've fallen asleep with the TV on; I'm leaning against Ichabod. The sound of a grandfather clock wakes me. It buzzes and shakes the air so hard I can feel the rhythm in my teeth. My eyelids are so damned heavy and my pulse rattles its cage, matching the beat. _Tick, tock, tick, tock_. Feels like my skin will rip and I'll bleed out if I move. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._ Everything I'm hearing is distorted; like my ears need to pop. Whirling-- a Wurlitzer and accordion; a carnival ride. I'm slammed against the couch by I don't know how many G's. A Doppler effect. Whirring. Is someone swinging a bolo? What am I forgetting?

     Oh yeah. I don't own a grandfather clock.

      It would feel so good to keep my eyes closed, but I gather my strength and wrench the lids apart. When I finally open them, it's to find a gangly creature, vaguely humanoid, sitting on my coffee table with its legs crossed-- casual as fuck. It's staring at Ichabod with beady, glowing eyes; they look like blacklights. Its features shift around in a cloud of red and gray. I can't make any of it out. Seems like it's somewhere between our plane and a different one. It radiates nothingness. How is that?

     My throat closes, but I can breathe. The feeling of choking hits me, fills me with a thick churning that tastes like frickin' trash and maggots, shit and decay. Smells like when we find a body in a bathtub after a week. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._ So loud.

     Ichabod is still there, sleeping like a baby, his breath misting in little clouds that float off in the twitchy air. The thing crouches next to the couch and pets Ichabod's face with its spindly fingers. From the corner of my eye I can see razor-thin cuts follow its touch.

     A voice like cracking bones over bitter laughter over scraping rusty metal croons in my ear: "Sleep. It'll be fine. Shhhh..." It draws a finger down my hairline, along my jaw, and makes its way into the V-neck of my sweater. "I came for him, but he's already marked. I'll be taking you." A sharp nail gauges an _X_ into my skin. It leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. "It is sealed." Up close its face is sort of like a human's, but  _wrong_. As it pulls back, it smiles-- its mouth too small for its teeth. They stick out and glow like lanterns, and its face pulls tighter and tighter, tearing down the middle. Through the crack I hear gale-force winds. Stars. There are stars. Someone weeps-- I think it's me.

     With a whoosh, its skin peels back; in a twirl of bones, absence, and guts it blinks out with a loud  _pop_. When I can move again, I try to stand but I've lost the feeling in my legs. Sacking out, I fall hard and start coughing so violently I puke. Ichabod wakes up and hurdles over the coffee table, catching me just in time before I keel over. He doesn't seem to notice blood running down his jaw and neck.

     "I'm okay," I choke out. That's not really true. He's cradling me firmly with one arm; the other reaches out and dips his index finger into the nastiness I hacked up.

     "You are not, Abbie. Please let me help you." Stroking my back with one hand and holding up the other, he squints at the finger with my sick on it, then he sniffs and squishes it against his thumb. 'What on earth...?" I can see it's a weird texture. "This is mud. See? There are bits of peat and stony till."

     He's right. My eyes finally focus and I'll be damned if it isn't mud.

 


End file.
